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Monday, October 29, 2018
Thursday, October 4, 2018
License Plates
Postales del Paraíso
License Plates
The moving van picked up our furniture in Seattle and we headed out, hoping to make it to Mexico before the furniture arrived. Before we left Seattle, Cathy found a company in Laredo that claimed to be able to export/import our car to comply with the Mexican laws, so we forwarded them copies of our passports, car title, registration, VIN number, a check for $500, etc, etc, etc, only to find when we arrived that the company address that they provided turns out to be a warehouse on the wrong side of the tracks stacked to the rafters with enormous bales of raw cotton and nobody there had ever heard of any car import company.
After a few anxiety-filled hours we tracked down the company, paid them several hundred dollars more and then drove across the border and checked into a hotel. They then followed us across the border and took the car back to the U.S. The plan is that they will take the car through customs and immigration in the morning and deliver the stamped and approved vehicle to us sometime tomorrow. We're currently waiting anxiously. If I thought more than a month ago, that mailing copies of our passports and personal information as well as all the documentation on our car to an unknown address three thousand miles away on the Texas border was a leap of faith, it now pales in comparison to driving across the border to an unfamiliar town in Mexico and handing over the keys to our car to a perfect stranger. But moving to Mexico requires more than one leap of faith, and this is just the latest in a series. We'll find out tomorrow if our naivety was justified… it's a long walk back to the border.
The only problem with checking into a hotel in Mexico with a pet is that they are not allowed. So, the dog is relatively small, and we zipped him into a piece of our luggage and got past the front desk, unfortunately the dog stuck his head up just as we passed a security guard on the way up to our room and they kicked us out. So, at risk of suffocating the dog, we stuffed him into another suitcase and successfully smuggled him into a different hotel on the other side of Nuevo Laredo. So far, we've been unsuccessful in getting the dog to pee in the bathtub so we're trying to figure out how to once again smuggle him past the front desk tonight and again tomorrow morning to take care of his necessities.
If you don't hear from us again, you'll know this didn't quite work out as planned. Otherwise we'll be in touch when we get "home".
Day 2
No car. No returned phone calls. Can’t get ahold of the import company to let them know were no longer staying at the hotel where they dropped us off. The dog has to pee (again). Starting to worry.
Day 3
After two days of waiting in the Nuevo Laredo hotel our car was delivered to us with an additional 250 miles on the odometer (the border is less than five miles from the hotel), less half a tank of gas, completely devoid of any thing that was not bolted to the interior, (owner’s manual, registration, ice scraper, maps, toll receipts, flashlight, oil change sticker on the windshield, etc. etc). It did however include an official looking document stating that the vehicle had passed a customs inspection and we now have five days to obtain license plates that are only issued in the state in which we will reside. It’s now Tuesday afternoon so if we leave in the morning, we should arrive in Ajijic on Thursday evening leaving us all day Friday to obtain the license plates. Simple!
So we drive into Guadalajara on Friday morning to the address provided and after two hours of finding ourselves in yet another wrong office, in yet another wrong building, we are told that the license plates are actually issued in Tonala but an appointment is required and an auto emissions certificate must be submitted with the license application. The emissions test must be done in the place of residence, which is of course Ajijic where we began the day. So, someone makes an appointment for us at 7:00 AM on Monday in Tonola and we drive to back to Ajijic and get the emissions test.
At 7:00 AM on Monday it’s still pitch black (the sun doesn’t rise until about 7:30), it’s pouring rain, and we find ourselves driving up and down every unmarked, impossibly narrow, cobblestone street in Tonola trying to find the right place. The address that we were given turns out to be a police station and they can’t figure out what a couple of bewildered old gringos are doing standing in the rain and the dark banging on their door at 7:00 AM. They gesture vaguely that the place we want is several blocks away. So, we get back in the car and drive to the wrong place and sit there for half an hour wondering why no one else has shown up.
Eventually we find the correct building, walk inside, announce that we have a 7:00 AM appointment, and with a sigh of relief sit patiently for our number to be called. Several hours later our number is called and we are asked for our passports, visas, immigration documents, title to the car (two copies, front and back), copy of registration, proof of residence (phone or electric bill with our name on it), marriage license (original only, no copies allowed – go figure). We are then told that no license plates are being issued today, and that we should come back tomorrow at the same time. When asked why this is necessary we’re informed with a wink and a smile that today is Labor Day.
While we know that Labor Day as celebrated in the U.S. is not a holiday in Mexico it would not be until later that we find out that the real reason no license plates were being issued that day was because it was pouring rain and nobody wanted to stand out in the rain checking VIN numbers and performing the required inspections.
We arrive once again at the appointed hour the following morning (no rain!) and then wait another hour for the process to begin. Eventually we’re all herded out of the building and the team of inspectors proceeds to go down the line and systematically check everyone’s paperwork and inspect all the cars that have been obediently lined up in the field outside, license plates removed, hood open, keys in the ignition, owner standing in front of the car with appropriate papers in hand. When it’s our turn the lead inspector declines to look at the required documents that we offer to him, or inspect the car, and instead smiles broadly, “Oh yes!" he says with a look of recognition, "I trust you had an enjoyable Labor Day!” he nods as he hands us the approved certificates. We are then informed that it will be approximately another two hours before the cashier arrives and we can pay for and be issued the license plates.
While waiting we decide to see if we can find a cup of coffee, so we head out knowing that there are no Starbucks here, but hoping to find a little tianquis or street market. We find one almost right around the corner. This one is small, maybe 15 or 20 separate stalls where the vendors are just beginning to set up for the day. There are several fruit stands, a baker, butcher, a fish monger, and a breakfast/lunch counter run by three abuelas. We settle onto our torn vinyl stools and order coffees from across the cratered and duck taped, formica countertop and then set back and watch as these three grandmothers prepare their shop for the day. Extension cords hang haphazardly in front of food splattered postcards and photos taped to the cracked tile wall behind the counter. Chilaquiles salsa bubbles in a blackened pot on the roaring propane burner, layering with the alluring aroma of broiling tomatillos, and the scent of fresh cut cilantro. One abuelita quickly minces tomatoes and onions in the palm of her hand using a knife that’s almost a machete (no cutting boards here) while her sister temporarily unplugs a light from a dangling extension cord to plug in an old Hamilton Beach blender and purees a mango peanut butter salsa to perfection. Boiling hot water for our coffee arrives in mismatched ceramic Christmas mugs along with an open bottle of Nescafe thoughtfully placed in front of us so that we can prepare our own coffee just the way we like it. When I ask for cream someone points to a pitcher of milk at the other end of the counter that was delivered straight from the cow across the street about an hour ago.
The oldest abuela, I would guess she was in her late 70’s, alternates between engaging her new arrivals and tending to a battered pot, steaming and bubbling on the stovetop. With a large wooden spoon she’ll put a dollop of the white creamy froth onto the back of her hand, taste it, add something else from an array of plastic bags on the back counter and then patiently stirs, repeating the process until she seems satisfied and then tosses the spoon in the pot, just letting it boil. A few minutes later she dips a styrofoam cup into the liquid and then stepping back from the stove pours it in a long slow stream into another cup. She then pours the steaming froth back and forth between the cups from ever increasing heights like a Turkish coffee maker in the bazaar. She pours a little bit onto the back of her hand, as if testing the temperature of a baby bottle, tastes it, smiles, and gestures to me if I’d like to try it. This, it turns out, is oatmeal, Mexican style. Made with the same thick milk from the neighbor’s cow that I used in my coffee, it is slightly thinner than a porridge, has just a hint of cinnamon and it is served as a drink. It is warm, impossibly creamy, immensely satisfying and absolutely delicious. I notice that several people at the counter are watching me, smiling, obviously amused that this old gringo is so enthralled with something as simple and common as oatmeal for breakfast. I toast them all with my last swallow, thank our newly found grandmothers, and we leave to see if the cashier has arrived with our license plates.
The wait is no more than an hour and a half, relatively prompt by local standards, and they again herd the entire group of about 50 people out of the building, across the field of waiting cars, around the corner and up the street. No one seems to know where we’re going but we follow obediently feeling vaguely as if we’re on a high school field trip. When we arrive at the designated building we are counted in, arranged numerically in long rows of folding chairs, and we wait. And we wait.
As Cathy will attest, I’m not the most patient guy you’ve ever come across, but just when I’ve reached my limit and begin squirming impatiently and muttering under by breath, they start calling out numbers and we start mentally reviewing in our halting Spanish the numbers from 1 to 27 so when they call our number we don’t sit there like idiots, miss our turn and have to come back again tomorrow.
“VEINTESIETE!” a gruff and impatient voice calls out. “Did he say 27 or was that 26?” “What’s the Spanish for 27?” “Veintiuno, veintidós , veintitrés, veinticuatro…” We hurry to the counter, give him our number, sign about 12 different documents in Spanish stating we don’t know what, and he hands us our shiny new Jalisco license plates. We want to celebrate! It’s like having a baby shower or a baptism! One more cultural milestone completed - it’s very sad when getting new license plates for your car is the highlight of your week, but we’ve come to the point where we celebrate the small accomplishments in life.
We bolt our new plates to the old car and proudly drive off beaming like new parents as we turn to each other with the same thought. How long do you think it will take to get all our furniture across the border? Let’s see, this is 2016…
The moving van picked up our furniture in Seattle and we headed out, hoping to make it to Mexico before the furniture arrived. Before we left Seattle, Cathy found a company in Laredo that claimed to be able to export/import our car to comply with the Mexican laws, so we forwarded them copies of our passports, car title, registration, VIN number, a check for $500, etc, etc, etc, only to find when we arrived that the company address that they provided turns out to be a warehouse on the wrong side of the tracks stacked to the rafters with enormous bales of raw cotton and nobody there had ever heard of any car import company.
After a few anxiety-filled hours we tracked down the company, paid them several hundred dollars more and then drove across the border and checked into a hotel. They then followed us across the border and took the car back to the U.S. The plan is that they will take the car through customs and immigration in the morning and deliver the stamped and approved vehicle to us sometime tomorrow. We're currently waiting anxiously. If I thought more than a month ago, that mailing copies of our passports and personal information as well as all the documentation on our car to an unknown address three thousand miles away on the Texas border was a leap of faith, it now pales in comparison to driving across the border to an unfamiliar town in Mexico and handing over the keys to our car to a perfect stranger. But moving to Mexico requires more than one leap of faith, and this is just the latest in a series. We'll find out tomorrow if our naivety was justified… it's a long walk back to the border.
The only problem with checking into a hotel in Mexico with a pet is that they are not allowed. So, the dog is relatively small, and we zipped him into a piece of our luggage and got past the front desk, unfortunately the dog stuck his head up just as we passed a security guard on the way up to our room and they kicked us out. So, at risk of suffocating the dog, we stuffed him into another suitcase and successfully smuggled him into a different hotel on the other side of Nuevo Laredo. So far, we've been unsuccessful in getting the dog to pee in the bathtub so we're trying to figure out how to once again smuggle him past the front desk tonight and again tomorrow morning to take care of his necessities.
If you don't hear from us again, you'll know this didn't quite work out as planned. Otherwise we'll be in touch when we get "home".
Day 2
No car. No returned phone calls. Can’t get ahold of the import company to let them know were no longer staying at the hotel where they dropped us off. The dog has to pee (again). Starting to worry.
Day 3
After two days of waiting in the Nuevo Laredo hotel our car was delivered to us with an additional 250 miles on the odometer (the border is less than five miles from the hotel), less half a tank of gas, completely devoid of any thing that was not bolted to the interior, (owner’s manual, registration, ice scraper, maps, toll receipts, flashlight, oil change sticker on the windshield, etc. etc). It did however include an official looking document stating that the vehicle had passed a customs inspection and we now have five days to obtain license plates that are only issued in the state in which we will reside. It’s now Tuesday afternoon so if we leave in the morning, we should arrive in Ajijic on Thursday evening leaving us all day Friday to obtain the license plates. Simple!
So we drive into Guadalajara on Friday morning to the address provided and after two hours of finding ourselves in yet another wrong office, in yet another wrong building, we are told that the license plates are actually issued in Tonala but an appointment is required and an auto emissions certificate must be submitted with the license application. The emissions test must be done in the place of residence, which is of course Ajijic where we began the day. So, someone makes an appointment for us at 7:00 AM on Monday in Tonola and we drive to back to Ajijic and get the emissions test.
At 7:00 AM on Monday it’s still pitch black (the sun doesn’t rise until about 7:30), it’s pouring rain, and we find ourselves driving up and down every unmarked, impossibly narrow, cobblestone street in Tonola trying to find the right place. The address that we were given turns out to be a police station and they can’t figure out what a couple of bewildered old gringos are doing standing in the rain and the dark banging on their door at 7:00 AM. They gesture vaguely that the place we want is several blocks away. So, we get back in the car and drive to the wrong place and sit there for half an hour wondering why no one else has shown up.
Eventually we find the correct building, walk inside, announce that we have a 7:00 AM appointment, and with a sigh of relief sit patiently for our number to be called. Several hours later our number is called and we are asked for our passports, visas, immigration documents, title to the car (two copies, front and back), copy of registration, proof of residence (phone or electric bill with our name on it), marriage license (original only, no copies allowed – go figure). We are then told that no license plates are being issued today, and that we should come back tomorrow at the same time. When asked why this is necessary we’re informed with a wink and a smile that today is Labor Day.
While we know that Labor Day as celebrated in the U.S. is not a holiday in Mexico it would not be until later that we find out that the real reason no license plates were being issued that day was because it was pouring rain and nobody wanted to stand out in the rain checking VIN numbers and performing the required inspections.
We arrive once again at the appointed hour the following morning (no rain!) and then wait another hour for the process to begin. Eventually we’re all herded out of the building and the team of inspectors proceeds to go down the line and systematically check everyone’s paperwork and inspect all the cars that have been obediently lined up in the field outside, license plates removed, hood open, keys in the ignition, owner standing in front of the car with appropriate papers in hand. When it’s our turn the lead inspector declines to look at the required documents that we offer to him, or inspect the car, and instead smiles broadly, “Oh yes!" he says with a look of recognition, "I trust you had an enjoyable Labor Day!” he nods as he hands us the approved certificates. We are then informed that it will be approximately another two hours before the cashier arrives and we can pay for and be issued the license plates.
While waiting we decide to see if we can find a cup of coffee, so we head out knowing that there are no Starbucks here, but hoping to find a little tianquis or street market. We find one almost right around the corner. This one is small, maybe 15 or 20 separate stalls where the vendors are just beginning to set up for the day. There are several fruit stands, a baker, butcher, a fish monger, and a breakfast/lunch counter run by three abuelas. We settle onto our torn vinyl stools and order coffees from across the cratered and duck taped, formica countertop and then set back and watch as these three grandmothers prepare their shop for the day. Extension cords hang haphazardly in front of food splattered postcards and photos taped to the cracked tile wall behind the counter. Chilaquiles salsa bubbles in a blackened pot on the roaring propane burner, layering with the alluring aroma of broiling tomatillos, and the scent of fresh cut cilantro. One abuelita quickly minces tomatoes and onions in the palm of her hand using a knife that’s almost a machete (no cutting boards here) while her sister temporarily unplugs a light from a dangling extension cord to plug in an old Hamilton Beach blender and purees a mango peanut butter salsa to perfection. Boiling hot water for our coffee arrives in mismatched ceramic Christmas mugs along with an open bottle of Nescafe thoughtfully placed in front of us so that we can prepare our own coffee just the way we like it. When I ask for cream someone points to a pitcher of milk at the other end of the counter that was delivered straight from the cow across the street about an hour ago.
The oldest abuela, I would guess she was in her late 70’s, alternates between engaging her new arrivals and tending to a battered pot, steaming and bubbling on the stovetop. With a large wooden spoon she’ll put a dollop of the white creamy froth onto the back of her hand, taste it, add something else from an array of plastic bags on the back counter and then patiently stirs, repeating the process until she seems satisfied and then tosses the spoon in the pot, just letting it boil. A few minutes later she dips a styrofoam cup into the liquid and then stepping back from the stove pours it in a long slow stream into another cup. She then pours the steaming froth back and forth between the cups from ever increasing heights like a Turkish coffee maker in the bazaar. She pours a little bit onto the back of her hand, as if testing the temperature of a baby bottle, tastes it, smiles, and gestures to me if I’d like to try it. This, it turns out, is oatmeal, Mexican style. Made with the same thick milk from the neighbor’s cow that I used in my coffee, it is slightly thinner than a porridge, has just a hint of cinnamon and it is served as a drink. It is warm, impossibly creamy, immensely satisfying and absolutely delicious. I notice that several people at the counter are watching me, smiling, obviously amused that this old gringo is so enthralled with something as simple and common as oatmeal for breakfast. I toast them all with my last swallow, thank our newly found grandmothers, and we leave to see if the cashier has arrived with our license plates.
The wait is no more than an hour and a half, relatively prompt by local standards, and they again herd the entire group of about 50 people out of the building, across the field of waiting cars, around the corner and up the street. No one seems to know where we’re going but we follow obediently feeling vaguely as if we’re on a high school field trip. When we arrive at the designated building we are counted in, arranged numerically in long rows of folding chairs, and we wait. And we wait.
As Cathy will attest, I’m not the most patient guy you’ve ever come across, but just when I’ve reached my limit and begin squirming impatiently and muttering under by breath, they start calling out numbers and we start mentally reviewing in our halting Spanish the numbers from 1 to 27 so when they call our number we don’t sit there like idiots, miss our turn and have to come back again tomorrow.
“VEINTESIETE!” a gruff and impatient voice calls out. “Did he say 27 or was that 26?” “What’s the Spanish for 27?” “Veintiuno, veintidós , veintitrés, veinticuatro…” We hurry to the counter, give him our number, sign about 12 different documents in Spanish stating we don’t know what, and he hands us our shiny new Jalisco license plates. We want to celebrate! It’s like having a baby shower or a baptism! One more cultural milestone completed - it’s very sad when getting new license plates for your car is the highlight of your week, but we’ve come to the point where we celebrate the small accomplishments in life.
We bolt our new plates to the old car and proudly drive off beaming like new parents as we turn to each other with the same thought. How long do you think it will take to get all our furniture across the border? Let’s see, this is 2016…
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
The Koi
Postales del Paraíso
The Koi
We’ve talked several times about getting rid of the koi while we’re not here because of the cost of keeping the fountain and the water circulation going 24 hours and the cost of feeding and maintenance, so a few days ago I bought some rubber gloves and started pulling the weeds out of the koi swamp to see if I could find any signs of life.
The property manager thought that the fish had made for several memorable evenings of exotic dining for the neighborhood cats or Coatamundi while we were gone, but I wanted to be sure. I pulled out two lawn-size plastic bags full of the aeration fern, but no sign of any fish. In the ensuing days I’ve monitored the pond carefully: no signs of life. I dropped koi food pellets onto the surface to see if I could entice any movement. Nothing.
So today I began the laborious task of tearing out the rest of the vegetation and draining the swamp, except of course there is no drain, so bucketful by bucketful I haul the water to the other side of the property and dump it in the courtyard drain. About an hour later, with the pond about 20% less full than when I started, I go back for another bucket load and there are four koi darting back and forth in the middle of the pond!
So my first thought is if I can catch the little buggers, I’ll throw them over the wall at my gas-stealing neighbors, or better yet I’ll wrap them in newspaper and have them delivered to my neighbor’s front door like a Mexican Godfather message to the Corleone Family: “Keep stealing my gas and you’ll sleep with the fishes!” (very nice, very cute, very expensive gold and saffron colored fishes, but fishes none-the-less)
But instead I walk down through the village to the Lake Chapala Society (the elderly ex-pat’s club) and put a large sign on the bulletin board: FREE KOI !!! The sign at first reminds me of a 1970’s poster for Bobby Seale or Angela Davis, but I figure they’ll get the point.
I turn to leave and I hear a voice calling from the office door. “Excuse me sir, I need to see your membership card!” I turn around to find an elderly firebrand of a woman with more wrinkles than a dried poblano chili and a voice that has never left the Lower East side wagging her finger as if admonishing a kindergarten delinquent.
Apparently in order to post to their bulletin board you need to be a member of the Lake Chapala Society, so this becomes one of those “Shoot me, now... please” kind of moments. Joining the LCS is like knowingly and willingly signing up for an AARP card; acknowledge here and now that youth and vigor are a thing of the past and sign up now for dementia deferment classes, bingo, and monthly melanoma screening.
So despite the fact that there’s only two months left in the year they want $200 pesos for the membership fee for the balance of 2012. So against my better judgment and in the best interest of the fish, I cough up the $16.00 dollars, have my photo taken and I am presented with my official Lake Chapala Society membership card. I briefly think about changing the sign to read “SAVE THE KOI”, but given the location of the sign I think allusions to the Black Panthers more appropriate than Jane Fonda.
On the way home I contemplate whether the $16.00 will bring me more piece of mind knowing that the fish may soon have a new home, or whether I’d truly have a better night’s sleep if I knew the neighbors would be too frightened by the ominous delivery of the newspaper wrapped fish, to steal any more gas from me. So I console myself with the knowledge that with my new membership I have the additional benefit of borrowing from the vast collection at the LCS Film Library of titles like “ How To Take Your Own Blood Pressure”, “The Home Prostate Cancer Check-up”, and “Providing Full Time Care For Your Loved One As You Age”.
Some things are simply priceless.
The Gas Man
Postales del Paraíso
The Gas Man
We shipped a few things south with a freight company and then I drove frantically to get here before everything arrived. Just made it!
So I went to take a shower this morning and there was no hot water. So I took a cold shower (cussing of course, the whole time).
Then I decided to make a cup of instant Nescafe (yuck, but there’s no coffeepots here yet) but the stove doesn't work. So now I'm really pissed and cussing the shower, the stove, the house, and all things Mexican. So after an hour of stomping around the house looking for what could possibly be wrong it dawns on me that the hot water heaters must be gas powered rather than electrical as I had assumed, so I checked the propane tank and sure enough it was empty. So I call Oscar (the gas man) and he comes and puts gas in the tank and leaves.
So now I have a stove that works, but still no hot water. So I call Oscar back and he comes and re-ignites the pilot light in one of the water heaters, but cannot get the other one to start and tells me to call a plumber. In the meantime he traces the gas line and tells me that there is a split in the line and part of the gas seems to be diverted to the neighbors house. So Oscar is Mexican, but he starts cussing about those shifty, no-good Mexicans who'll take everything they can from you. Oscar is a decidedly big guy, well over 6’ tall with a shaved head and an “I’m gonna get this done” kind of attitude and he wants to climb over the wall and confront the neighbors. I tell Oscar that first I'll have the plumber come over and confirm Oscar’s suspicions and then I'll deal with the neighbors. Oscar then wants to call the police, so I tell him I'll handle it and promise to call him if I need him to come beat up the neighbors.
So I walk a few doors down and knock on Armando's door (this is the same plumber-guy that didn't really fix the leaky shower faucet the last time I was here – more on that later). So Armando is not home and his wife who answers the door speaks as much English as I speak Spanish. After a brief conversation I get the feeling that she’s wondering what this crazy gringo is doing knocking on her door and is probably ready to call the police so I slowly back away from her door thinking that maybe I'll try the conversation again tomorrow.
So while I was waiting for Oscar to show up I decide to reinstall the refrigerator. I had pulled it away from the wall, unplugged it and turned off the water source before I left here the last time to save energy. So I open the door to the fridge and sitting on one of the shelves is a very formal notification from the Governor of Jalisco's Legal office, addressed to the previous owner of the home, dated August 6, 2012 and demanding payment of $6,100 plus interest for non-payment of taxes. The letter states that the defendant must show up at the office in Guadalajara, within 10 days (it’s now mid October), pay the fine and face possible legal action for other infractions. What this obviously official document is doing sitting in my refrigerator I have no idea. I subsequently ask the maid, the gardener and the pool guy but none of them speak English and just stare back at me blankly as I repeatedly jab my finger into the piece of paper. All the rest of the mail is dutifully jammed under the front door, the side door, the garage door, or some neighbor’s door, nothing is ever placed in the mailbox and this is the only mail I’ve found in the refrigerator, although I haven’t checked the other appliances yet.
So after I have my informative conversation with Armando’s wife, I call Dale (the previous home owner) and leave a message telling him that the Federales have been looking for him in my refrigerator, and promise him that I will not divulge his real location, and then head off to find my attorney to finalize my FM-3 (Resident Visa). She wasn't there yesterday and is in court in Chapala today, but her assistant promises that she will be in the office tomorrow but only in the morning, unless of course something changes, in which case she may, or may not, be here at all.
As I'm leaving the office I get a phone call from Victoria at Rojas Freight Forwarding saying that our furniture arrived in Ajijic today and they will deliver it at 9:00 AM tomorrow, and I realize that I have no knife to open and check the boxes, no packing blankets to protect the furniture and the floors, no furniture dolly or hand truck and no drill or screwdriver to open the crates. So I immediately become the source of great amusement in town, as I run frantically from one hardware store to the next, not knowing the Spanish word for furniture dolly or screwdriver, and trying to pantomime my way through the process.
I arrived back home to discover some good news; we're now in the phone book! New phone books were delivered around town today and it's about the same size as an old high school spiral bound notebook and it has white pages and yellow pages. So I turn to the white pages and there it is! My first name and middle name have been combined, but the space between them has been misplaced: Willi amryan, (small “r”, thank you) but at least the Sheehan part is correct! It makes it seem so official – like finding my name in Saint Peter's San Pedro's book at the Mexican Gates of Paradise!!!
This is as exciting as it gets here. I spent the rest of the day coal mining beneath the kitchen counters trying to clean the cabinets before I put all our stuff away. Nothing has been cleaned here since father Miguel Hidalgo y Castillo led the local Indians to revolt against the Spanish. Everything is covered in mildew and dirt and of course none of the shelves are removable so you gotta climb on in to the darkness and the mold and wrestle the cockroaches into submission armed only with your Clorox Blanqueador spray bottle and a sponge. If the Indians had to clean the Spanish kitchen cabinets it's no wonder they revolted.
I went to Walmart later to get a refill for my Blanqueador and the place has aisles and aisles filled with Halloween costumes and décor, as opposed to the Walmarts at home where there are aisles and aisles of Halloween candy; this place has NO candy! I better figure out what I'm supposed to do before I'm confronted by an angry mob on Halloween night - whenever that is down here – or even IF it is down here. Or maybe this Halloween stuff is all for the benefit of the gringos and the locals are all more sensible.
More later, if I ever figure this out.
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